Superman : The Fallen
by darkknight uk
Summary: Unofficial sequel to the excellent Godfall arc. Having faced defeat at the hands of Krypton's last son the Kandorian corpsman Sergeant Preus plots an elaborate and terrible vengeance upon Kal El. Please R & R. All feedback greatly appreciated!
1. Prologue

Dan Laurikietis Presents…

**Superman**

**The Fallen **

"It won't come off!"

The makeshift rusty steel shiv scraped against the resplendent gold armour. The armour that was now fused to the Kandorian warrior's skin by the traitor's onslaught. In the flickering light of the fire he had made he checked the sharpness of his improvised blade. He was confident that if he persevered it would cut through.

"Yaaaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrggghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!"

He cried out in pain and rage. The symbol embossed in his chest plate represented an ideal, an ideal he had held in his mind and heart since he was a boy. The crest of The Superman. It had been his guidance, his inspiration, his source of hope. It symbolised that men were not created equal. It implied the superiority of a master race and that the duty of that race, _his_ race, was to protect the pure and civilised from the corruption and depravity of the impure.

The non-Ks.

The _aliens_.

As a child he had only a passing distaste for their perculiar looks, their crass, unpleasant languages and their obscure and primitive cultures. As a corpsman he had seen first hand the moral decay that seemed endemic in the alien population. The gangs, the rioters, the looters. They were sub human animals with no regard for society, for civilisation. To compare them to the true people of Kandor was laughable, to imbue them with the same rights unthinkable.

He had worn the S emblazoned shield as a badge of honour. He had fought for what it represented.

Until he met the traitor.

The corpsman's world shattered the day an aberrant force brought murder to the paradise of Kandor. He had found that the so-called _real_ Superman was a mere parody of the ideals that his emblem represented. The real Superman was no deity, no God-like figure who visited his wrath upon the corrupt and his blessings upon the truly pure. He was not a creature of infinite wisdom, nor righteous vengeance. He was a snivelling wretch who fraternised with alien gangs and had tried to harbour an illegal species of alien. An empireth, no less, a psychic humanoid creature thought to have been purged years ago by heroes of the C.P.C. The corpsman's righteous quest to terminate the fiendish creature had brought him to the traitor's hellish alien planet where he was now trapped, unable to return to his beloved Kandor.

His beliefs had been shredded.

God was but a man.

A man named Kal-El.

Kal El. To even think the name was poison to his mind. The traitor had beaten him in combat and he had been forced to flee to the sanctuary of the cave where he now stood. The traitor had left him robbed of purpose and vision. Left him with nothing but shame and hate. The symbol on his chest was now a perverted distortion of what it had once meant to him.

"_IT WON'T COME OFF!_"

The yellow sun of this perverse planet had lent him great strength even as its corrupting toxicity cloyed at his mind. He felt the sharp metal yield in his hands. He stared at the shard of metal and focused all his rage and hate upon it. It began to glow white hot. With a satisfied grunt he thrust it into the gold chest plate, using all his godly might to carve a gash across the symbol he had grown to hate. Blood seeped through the open wound, spitting and sizzling on the still glowing hot armour.

"By my father's blood… I will see you die for this, Kal-El.."

The pain and rage incensed him further and he gouged with renewed vigour at his maimed chest.

"All of the impure will _DIE_."

He would have revenge on the traitor Kal-El. He would humiliate, degrade and destroy the usurper of the mantle of The Superman. Then he would force Kal El to return him to Kandor where he would pronounce final judgement upon the heathen alien masses. He would carry the traitor's severed head as a trophy and his will would be the whole of the law.

"_SO SWEARS SERGEANT PREUS!"_


	2. Chapter 1

**Two Years Later…**

"It's good Clark."

Perry White tossed the paper onto his desk with a nonchalance that belied the anger inside. Perry was eccentric, brash, sometimes even cantankerous but when it came to journalism his passion was unrivalled. In his years at The Daily Planet he had turned the publication from a moderately respected journal with flagging sales to America's best selling metropolitan newspaper.

"But I don't pay you for _good_."

Clark Kent studiously examined his shoes. At school he had been polite and academically gifted but had he been of a different persuasion he imagined this might be the sort of verbal doing down his teachers would have given him.

"It's sophisticated, eloquent. It's not even lacking in flair. But I've seen more passion in my wife's goddamn _shopping list_!"

A sausage like finger jabbed at the publication. Kent adjusted his spectacles.

"Mr White, I beg to differ. You see-"

"Shut up! You'll get your chance, now let an old man rant. When you first came here I didn't think you'd last a week. I thought 'Hey, if this guy were any more mild mannered he'd be in a coma.' But your writing kid, your writing had compassion, it had ingenuity but above all it had balls! Polite and unassuming may be great for the Smallville Gazette but Metropolis is a big city and the Planet is a big paper and I thought to myself 'Maybe, just maybe, if he can consistently produce this kind of work, he just might cut it."

"Well thank you Mr White I-"

"And when you and Lois got hitched, I'm telling you this because we've worked together a long time and I'd like to think we're friends, I was worried. I've seen it happen so many times, a good writer… He needs to have some angst, some get go y'know. I though married life would pacify, would placate my best reporter."

"I don't know if I'd say I was your best reporter Mr White."

"Hell no, I was talking about Lois!"

"Ah."

"But again, I was wrong. You've both been producing consistently good work for years and it's lost none of its aggression or its integrity. But these last few months…"

The aging editor sighed. He ran his big hands though his greyish hair and settled down into the chair opposite Clark.

"I've known you and your prose style a long time kid. Reading your stuff… it's still _good_. But you come off distracted, like only half your mind's on the job."

"I uhh…. Have you noticed this in Lois' work too?"

"No. No, I haven't and that's what I've been wanting to talk to you about Kent."

"Oh. Okay."

"Kent, I've been married nearly thirty five years and let me tell you, marriage is no picnic. It takes a lot of hard work and well, if something's not right it can take a lot out of a man. I've got enough married men on my payroll to see it in a guy's work when there's trouble at home."

"I guess."

"Kent… _Clark_. Is everything okay between you and Lois?"

"M-Me and Lois?!? Sure Lois is great."

"We're both men of the world Clark. If something _is_ wrong-"

"Really, honestly, Mr White things between Lois and I have never been better."

Perry grunted.

"Well, you're losing sleep over something kid I can see that much. If you don't want to tell me that's fine, I won't pry. Just do one thing for an old friend."

"What's that sir?"

"Take the rest of the day off. Take a nap, watch some TV, eat fast food in bed. Relax a little. You look like you haven't slept in a month."

_Two months, three weeks, three days and seventeen hours._

"If you say so Mr White, I'll do just that."

The unassuming reporter stood up and made for the door to Perry's office.

"You know I'm only saying all this because I care don't you Clark?"

"I know Mr White."

"And I think you've known me long enough to call me Perry."

"Okay Mr White."

As Clark Kent left, closing the door behind him Perry White scowled at the paper on his desk. He felt marginally guilty for chewing the kid out over the quality of his editorial. Sure it wasn't as good as usual but it was still worthy of the paper by anyone's standard. The truth was that his friend was preoccupied by something and he thought he'd have more luck appealing to Clark's sense of professionalism than asking him outright what was troubling him. But Clark had chosen not to confide in him and Perry knew that to push the man too far would make him even more shy and withdrawn. He just hoped that his friend would be able to exorcise his demons, be they booze, illness, family matters, whatever before they consumed him.

"So what did he say?"

In the relative privacy of The Planet's interview room Clark related his editor and friend's concern to his wife.

"He told me to go home, stay in bed, eat cheeseburgers."

Lois could barely stifle a giggle at the thought of The Last Son of Krypton, The Man Of Steel, a living legend vegetating in bed watching chat shows with a quarter-pounder in each hand.

"Maybe he's right. You haven't eaten or slept in months."

"I don't have to Lois, you know that."

"Maybe you don't need to as much as I do but you still need to Clark. You've been burning the candle at both ends for so long I can hardly remember the last time we sat down to a meal or even spent five minutes alone together without you zipping off to stop a mud slide in Venezuela. Kryptonian physiology aside, you're only human honey."

Clark removed his glasses, rubbed his eyes and sighed. The exertions of the past months had indeed taken their toll. While there had been mercifully few encounters with the likes of Metallo or Brainiac there had been a larger than usual amount of natural disasters occurring throughout the world. Enough, in fact, to push the man of steel to his limits.

"You know, Clark, all these years I've known about your double life only one time I've seen you even close to tired and that was-"

A sob caught in his wife's throat and Clark knew she was referring to his encounter with the savage beast Doomsday. A confrontation that had effectively killed him. He could barely imagine the grief Lois must have endured then. He took her hand and kissed her gently on the cheek.

"Lois. Honey. This is nothing like that."

He stiffened, quickly whipping his glasses back on.

"We'd better cut out the shop talk, Jimmy's coming down the corridor."

"Well, I've got to split anyway. Interview with the Ukranian ambassador in an hour."

The couple stood up just as the young photographer burst into the room.

"Hey folks, anybody seen a…. Am I interrupting anything?"

Clark smiled warmly. Jimmy Olsen was a good kid. Polite, considerate and completely dedicated to his job, colleagues and friends. And a hell of a photographer to boot! Not that Perry would ever tell him that of course.

"Not at all Jim. I'm not feeling too great, do you think you could get someone to cover my desk?"

"Sure thing Mr Kent. Oh hey y'know what I heard there's this bug going round it might be-"

The kryptonian's superhuman hearing registered a sound half way through Jimmy's sentence. A shout followed by the angry crash of a heavy object thrown. More raised voices formed a cacophony of sound that painted a picture in the Man Of Steel's mind. An image of a situation that could escalate into violence and casualties. He had to get there before that happened.

He raised his hand to his mouth and pretended to retch.

"Omigod!" exclaimed Jimmy, "Clark's gonna barf! Dude, men's restroom down the hall!"

Clark muffled something that sounded vaguely like a "thanks Jimmy" and bolted out of the door.

Alone and out of sight the mild mannered reporter removed his glasses.

_I'm getting tired. The past few months have drained me, no doubt about it._

He loosened his tie.

_Keeping this kind of life up would take its toll on any man. But then-_

His shirt opened to reveal the S logo emblazoned in red and gold on his blue costume. A touchstone to his kryptonian heritage.

_I have to be _more_ than just a man._

Less than two seconds later his red cape billowed in the wind as he soared majestically over the bustling streets of Metropolis.

Because I am Superman. And there's no rest for the wicked. Or the people who oppose them!


	3. Chapter 2

Bullets weren't a problem.

He _was_ Superman after all.

They just bounced off him.

This was an established and well-documented fact.

The trouble was the potential hazard that the ricocheting bullets presented. The only thing he could do in a crowded place like this was grab the bullets at super speed as and when they bounced off his head and torso. And that wasn't easy. As the gun's hammer clicked impotently against an empty chamber The Man of Steel shot the masked robber a look to let him know that he was not in the least bit amused. Undaunted the thief threw the empty weapon at the guardian of Metropolis before turning on his heels and pitching forward into the small and amazed group of onlookers, pushing them savagely aside as he made his escape.

As his hands squeezed the spent shells into a rough orb about the size of a baseball Superman checked the retreating thug over with his x-ray vision. He appeared to be wearing a bullet-proof vest underneath his combat fatigues.

_Good._

A swift pitch of the metal ball and the robber lay semiconscious on his stomach in the liquor store entrance. The automatic doors, their sensors blocked, opened and shut repeatedly on his head much to the amusement of the now gathering crowd. Superman looked around before earnestly asking the cashier,

"Are you alright?"

He was a short man of Korean descent in his mid fifties with sparse black hair and a wide smile which he extended to The Man of Steel.

"Fine. Everything's going to be just fine. Thank you!"

The shaken crowd were starting to regain their composure and a few had burst into applause. A boy of about twelve loudly announced,

"Supes, you _rock_!"

Satisfied that nobody was hurt the blue clad hero stepped over to the fallen thief, lifting him effortlessly off the ground by the collar. He was conscious now and a brief examination revealed no broken bones. It had also revealed a tattoo of a swastika stamped boldly and defiantly on the robber's chest. Superman tore off the ski mask to reveal the face of a shaven headed boy probably not even out of high school. The boy's face was contorted in rage and hate. The Man of Steel met his stare which appeared to be levelled more at the cowering shopkeeper behind him than at him. Regarding the boy with anger and disbelief he simply asked,

"Why?"

The look in the boy's eyes was one of boundless scorn.

"I. Don't. Like. Gooks!"

Superman shook his head in dismay. All the miracles of human achievement and endeavour and people still held these attitudes. It was almost enough to make the Kryptonian question his faith in his beloved adopted planet and its people.

"Son, you've obviously got a lot to learn about-"

"GO HOME ALIEN FREAK!"

The youth bellowed, his baleful eyes levelled now at the Man Of Steel.

"GO HOME!

"GO HOME!"

He repeated again and again, it became a mantra, a chant. The people still in the store fidgeted nervously. A woman who was comforting the shopkeeper (presumably his wife) began to cry.

"GO HOME!

"GO HOME!"

After all the good he had done on Earth he knew that there were some who still viewed him as an intruder, an interloper, feared that he may have an ulterior motive, distrusted his powers. Perhaps this was the opinion of the majority of people only they were too cowed by his powers to admit it. Small-minded people nurturing their petty bigotries in the face of the overwhelming good he did for them every day.

"GO HOME!

"GO HOME!"

Rage welled in Superman's heart. His grip on the youth's collar tightened, his fist beginning to shake. The young thief's face grew crimson, his mantra of hate choking in his throat.

"I'm being _very_ patient with you son."

_Restrain yourself Clark, you're turning into Bruce!_

Fatigue and anger were impairing his judgement. He wanted to strike this boy even knowing that it could seriously injure or kill him. He fought the urge to lash out at the youth, tried to tell himself that the kid was simply misguided, struggled to convince himself that there was some good in the boy.

"Need a hand there Superman?"

The voice seemed terribly far away even though it was a yard from him. A trio of beat cops had entered the store. The shopkeeper must have pressed a silent alarm. The young thief held from the ground suddenly seemed incredibly heavy.

"Is this the perp?"

The voice steered Superman back to reality and he relaxed his grip on the apprehended robber.

"Uhh, I think you'd better set him down Superman, you're hurting him."

The closest of the officers to him was talking to him with a kind of hushed reverence but there was something else in his eyes. Apprehension?

_Fear_?

"That's-" his voice caught in his throat producing a very un-Superman whimper. He cleared his throat restoring his voice to its usual resonant bass.

"That's him officers. Attempted armed robbery. Take him away."

As he left the store he hoped that nobody would notice the faint wobble in his gait, the telltale sign of a man nearing the brink of physical endurance. He needed to take solace above the crowds, to allow his body to drink in the energy of Earth's yellow sun and allow his mind to relax and compose itself.

"FREAK. ALIEN FREAK!!!"

The parting shot as he left deeply stung the invulnerable hero. He pushed the hateful remark to the back of his mind and launched himself into the air.

Flying had always been so therapeutic for him. No matter what the day's exertions he had always find himself able to find peace and solace amongst the highest tips of the buildings that thrust themselves into the Metropolis sky. Now, though it was a joyless and physically gruelling exercise like climbing an endless flight of stairs. Even weaving around close formations of migratory birds filled him with none of the simple natural joy he usually gleaned from sharing the skies with these creatures. Flattening his arms close by his sides he propelled himself upwards, his speed increasing as disturbed the delicate gossamer of the clouds and entered the upper levels of the planet's atmosphere.

The air was thin here but that didn't matter. His need for oxygen was as peripheral as his need for food. He closed his eyes and exhaled trying to push all his worries and concerns out with the breath. The Man of Steel made a conscious effort to enjoy the solitude before his superhuman hearing acclimatised to his new location.

It was no good. Soon the voices came.

They began of trickles of snatched conversation. Droplets of sound containing the words of a thousand languages. Laughter, tears, angered shouting, roars of success, stifled sobbing. Soon it all flooded upwards toward Superman like an unstoppable torrent bursting through a ruptured dam of silence. He usually embraced this deluge, recognising it as the best way to locate incidents where his help was needed. But now his body and mind were racked with exhaustion.

Then came a series of sounds which forced him to put doubt and self concern behind him. The groaning creek of overworked metal, the crack of broken concrete. Mutters of confusion turned to cries of shock. Unconsciously his gaze penetrated cloud and distance to settle on the source of the disturbance.

The Metropolis Harbour Bridge was collapsing.

Without a second thought he propelled himself downwards with unimaginable speed, re-entering the atmosphere with a sonic boom.


	4. Chapter 3

Plummeting toward the grey strip of steel and macadam The Man Of Steel perceived a deadly spider web of cracks spreading across the Metropolis Harbour Bridge. The dull groan of the steel girders beneath was now completely drowned out by the cries of sheer terror and panic. Superman banked his body, soaring around in an arc, his speed decreasing dramatically.

_Let them see me. Give them hope. Stop them from panicking._

He hovered there for the briefest of moments, his incredible senses taking in the extent of the damage, his mind scrambling to formulate a plan. His cape blew resplendently in the wind and the hero was gratified by the shouts and whispers that crept into his ears.

"Look, look there."

"Holy-"

"_Told_ you he was real!"

"Quick, quick, get me my camera!"

"I'll be damned."

"Oh thank God, just thank God!"

As he watched The Man of Steel felt a welcome sense of calm wash over the passengers below. He would have to move quickly before it dissipated.   
He swooped under the bridge, roughly calculating its centre of balance, and flattened his body against the uneven surface, trying to cover as large a surface area as possible. His powerful hands sunk into the asphalt above and he enjoyed the tactile pleasure as his fingers bit into the tough surface as though it were soft clay. Pushing upwards with all his might he focused his gaze on the epicentre of the cracks, curious as to what could have caused such an unlikely disturbance.

He had a nasty feeling that it was no natural occurrence.

There was a sudden jolt from above reminding the Kryptonian of the urgency of his predicament. He would make the asphalt soft and pliable with his heat vision, reform it as super speed and reset it with his Arctic breath. It would be a temporary solution at best but the only hope for the innocents above. He narrowed his eyes, his vision becoming reddish and shimmering as the super heated rays spilled forth from his eyes.

Suddenly he registered a series of muffled popping sounds, like popcorn bursting in the microwave, and within a moment chunks of asphalt were raining down into the turgid waters below.

The Man of Steel's mind reeled as he stared impotently at the falling debris?

Must be some kind of minor explosive charges that were set off by my heat vision. But who could-? How? Why?

In his mind's eye the hero envisaged dozens of screaming innocent men women and children, clawing frenziedly at their seatbelts as they plummeted to a watery grave, their vehicles becoming rusted metal tombs in the salty water.

That _could not_ happen.

He closed his eyes, spending a valuable second focusing his little remaining energy into a single concentrated burst.

There would be no second chance. Nearly fifty people would die if he failed now.

When his eyes snapped open time had stood still. Jagged chunks of masonry were suspended in the air. Birds were frozen in the sky, immobile. The scene above was a motionless tableau of terror and chaos. Superman's mind and body moved with such speed that each second seemed to stretch into infinity. When me moved the air seemed to ripple around him, the laws of scientific possibility stretched to their very limit.

He was moving at super speed.

He weaved amongst the cars an unstoppable force. He ripped off the roofs of the vehicles as though they were candy bar wrappers, scooping their terrified passengers up in his arms and flying them safely to land, pitching them as gently as the fast depleting time and his current velocity would allow.

He repeated this process again and again. Every time there was a little less bridge, every time the threat of failure seemed that much more palpable. Soon he was tearing through vehicles as they fell downward, shredding steel with his bare hands, catching their delicate cargo in his arms as he went.

_Just one more car to go. You can do this Clark. You _can_ do this!_

By the time he reached the final car the very tip of its bonnet was touching the water, the pregnant woman and her infant daughter pressed against the windshield. Their faces frozen into masks of abject terror. Sheer force of will propelled the hero toward the vehicle and its trapped passengers. He grabbed the rear bumper, gouging his fingers into the metal, concentrating solely on flying upward with his cargo.

Ordinarily the weight of the vehicle would be a minor challenge to his Herculean strength but Superman's exertions had left him almost physically and mentally spent.

He strained, arching his back and shoulders, heaving his body upwards, his efforts solely concentrated on lifting the car from the icy, deadly embrace of the water below. Resultantly he phased out of super speed and the laws of physics wasted no time in catching up with him. Huge chunks of asphalt and steel plummeted downward, churning the water all about him. A falling concrete lane divider glanced off the back of Superman's skull, drawing blood.

Blood was bad. Blood meant that the unique powers that the yellow sun of this system afforded him were dwindling. Blood took the Super out of Superman.

Leaving just…

A man.

As the crimson fluid trickled down his cheek Lois' words from earlier that day rang in his ear, a grimly resonant reminder of his own fallibility;

"Kryptonian physiology aside, you're only human honey."

The threat of failure hung upon his shoulders, compounded by the frantic screams of the woman and child within the car.

With terror The Man Of Steel realised that he and the car were sinking. The front tyres and half of the bonnet were now submerged in the turbulent water. Eyes screwed shut, teeth clenched together, Superman pulled with all his might but the dead weight of the vehicle just seemed to be getting heavier.

A small voice, perfect and beautiful in its pre-school innocence was heard from the car.

"Mommy, is Superman hurt?"

The response, older, more jaded muffled by tears of desperation and despair.

"I don't know darling. I can't… he has to…"

"He's going to save us though right?"

"I…. I don't know if he can."

"Of course he can!"

The voice of a child young enough to have faith in belief called up to The Man Of Steel.

"You can do it Superman!"

Something in that voice, in that faith gave him new strength. He shrugged off the dark mantle of failure. Focusing on the car's rear window he used a weak, stuttering ray of heat vision to cut a hole large enough for a heavily pregnant adult to climb through. He called down trying to sound bolder and more confident than he felt;

" I can't carry the car ma'am, but I _can_ carry you and your daughter. I just need you to climb up."

The little girl wasted no time at all in unbuckling herself and clambering over the front seat, her mother following suit, pushing the child up through the hole in the glass. The child was a good climber, had probably already scaled some trees in her few years. Small arms encircled Superman's neck and, not for the first time the hero's heart ached with yearning for the parenthood that would forever be denied him.

"Hi Superman, my name's Ellie!"

Her smile was enough to assure Superman that helping people was exactly what he wanted to do with his life.

"I'm six!"

She informed him as she swung herself around, perching herself upon his back the way she probably did when her father had given her piggyback rides.

The mother was climbing up now, mouth agape with fear and awe. The image of her daughter smiling excitedly down at her reflected in a tear filled eye.

"Just grab my arm ma'am, and I'll get you both to safety."

The terrified woman complied, the only thought in her mind gratitude for little Ellie's safety. When he was sure of the woman's grip Superman let go of the vehicle, floating steadily (if not effortlessly) upward.

It was the most gruelling flight of his life, the relatively tiny weight of the woman and child seemed an unbearable load to the exhausted hero. Only the little girl's gleeful words of encouragement spurred him on.

It was with great relief that Superman gently set the two down on the fractured bridge. Sagging with exhaustion he cast his eyes over the scene. Just over a dozen people lay injured and groaning on the asphalt, nursing oozing head gashes and damaged limbs. Dazed, confused, devastated. Better than the alternative, certainly, but the hero bore even these minor injuries of the people he had sworn to protect heavily. The Man of Steel concentrated on slowing his breathing, regaining control of his senses. Within moments his ears were filled with groans, tearful whimpers and mumbled curses. As the numbness of shock subsided the collective forgot their fear and bewilderment and noticed only their pain. It was a pain that Superman shared.

"Is everyone alright?"

There were a few tentative nods amongst the few who looked up from their scuffs and bruises. A fair skinned read haired woman was already weaving her way amongst the small crowd, flexing wrists and muttering words of comfort. She cast the blue clad hero a weary smile.

"It's alright Superman I'm a-"

"Doctor Benning from Metropolis General," he said with a smile remembering the surgeon's face. "We met a few weeks ago."

"That's right, you brought in that cat burglar with the fractured coccyx. Wow I-" she flushed slightly that Superman of all people had taken the time to remember her name. "I didn't think you'd have remembered me. Anyway I don't think anyone's too badly injured. I'm sure we'll all be just fine so you can-"

"Fine? FINE? Fine my pimpled ass!"

A short middle aged man wearing a fake designer business suit and equally fake cologne hobbled over with an exaggerated limp.

"Do you have any idea how much my car was worth? I've got a sales meeting with some very important clients in Keystone City tomorrow."

He prodded Superman in the chest with a pudgy finger.

"You'd damn well better be piggy backing me over there Big Blue 'cause there ain't no way I'm catching a goddamned Greyhound bus!"

The salesman's concern for his car after coming so close to a watery grave was bemusing to the point of hilarity yet the hero managed to keep a straight face and look vaguely concerned.

"You'll be hearing from my lawyers about this. You know I'm pretty sure I've got a fractured tribula."

"Tibia." Dr. Benning corrected.

"Whatever. Between that and the damage to my car. I'm goddamned well entitled to some goddamned compensation. I'm going to sue those pansy red underpants right off of you, boy!"

Drawing himself to his full height Superman peered down at the irate salesman determined not to be driven to anger, biting back the urge to respond with some cutting remark.

You're better than that Clark.

Lois' voice in his head reminded him.

"I'm sorry you feel that way sir. But I'm sure your insurance will cover any damage to your vehicle. Now if you'll excuse me…"

He turned and took a few sure-footed steps away from the agog crowd, tipping his head slightly so that nobody would see the neat gash cloven into his skull by the falling debris. The hero's refusal to rise to the bait was misconstrued as weakness by the salesman and he took a step forward, mentally preparing another verbal assault.

Deftly assessing the situation Dr Benning wove between the two placing herself in the path of the shorter man and taking him tenderly by the arm.

"Sir, I think you're in shock, you've suffered an incredibly traumatic incident."

"Well I… yes I!"

"Of course you have. Now if you'd just like to take a seat here with these people who've suffered an equally traumatic incident and we'll see what we can do about that fractured tibia."

Smiling to himself Superman mentally thanked the doctor as he gathered his few remaining reserves of energy to launch himself into the air. His takeoff was a little shaky but he was sure that the observers were too busy dealing with their own shock and pain to notice. Wheeling around in an arc he waved smiling at the doctor and the injured civilians to whom she was attending. A few waved back, returning him smile with sincere gratitude. Little Ellie blew him a kiss.

As he soared toward the centre Metropolis through a sky tinted amber by the setting sun he decided that the best thing to do with a bad day like today was end it. He would take Lois to a nice restaurant and get to bed early. By the time he awoke with dawn's first light in true farm boy style his wound would have healed and he'd have regained some much needed strength.

Half a mile away the gaunt man in the trench coat watched without the aid of binoculars. His enemy's take off was faltering, weak.

Depleting Superman's seemingly infinite energy reserves had proved no mean feat. It was now time to implement the next phase of his plan.

The net had been cast. It was time to tighten it.

Right on cue a cell phone vibrated in his pocket. He spoke into it in a voice that still boomed richly with authority belying his bedraggled appearance.

"The apartment?"

"On standby sir." The obedient voice of one of his subordinates.

"Do it."

Eyes that were once blue burned violet with psychotic hatred. As he snapped the cell phone shut his thin lips drew back over greyed gums and blackened teeth in a schizophrenic snarl of a smile. He had orchestrated the events leading to this moment with military precision. He had turned a petty gang of the planet's indigenous vermin into a skilled army, loyal to him unto death.

His revenge was almost complete.

The ruination of Kal El was at hand.


	5. Chapter 4

The sun over Metropolis was now a reddish shade of burnt orange. Its bronze rays glistened off of the great monoliths of glass and steel that made up the skyline. Seagulls soared over Hobbs Bay, carrying the last of the day's catch in their beaks.

Below them a weary Clark Kent swung open the saloon doors of Bibbo's Bar, called a fond farewell to the landlord and strolled toward the city proper. He walked at a leisurely pace, trying to absorb the early evening rays of the dwindling sun. He was wearing a roll neck sweater and jeans as well as his usual glasses. He had eighteen clothing caches, cleverly hidden in strategic points all over Metropolis, that were readily accessible should he need to change costume without wanting (or being able) to return to his apartment.

He rode the free shuttle bus into the city's bustling centre. He began to feel his strength gradually returning, courtesy of the sun's rays and the seventeen glasses of orange juice consumed at Bibbo's Bar. He had knocked the beverages back with such speed and gusto that it had rendered Bibbo, for the first time since Clark had known him, speechless. The grizzled mariner turned bartender obviously had no idea how much of a thirst Superman's afternoon exertions could work up. Nor would he be able to fathom, if told, the efficiency with which Clark's unique physiology would process the chemical energy in the fruit juice.

It was a beautiful evening and already the cafes and bars were filling up with business men and women, college students and young couples eager to make an early start on what promised to be a balmy and beautiful summers night. Given his usual mode of transportation around Metropolis he made a point of talking long walks around his beloved city. For all the grandeur of her skyscrapers Metropolis' real heart and soul was in her streets. From her restaurants emanated the aromas of cuisine from a myriad of different cultures. Her parks boasted a wealth of trees and plant life, as diverse and intriguing as the people who visited them. Of course it had its share of street crime. Sure there were still a few of the old crime families who had burrowed so far in they had been impossible to move. Yes, it even had a multi billion dollar insurance policy with the Bank of America to protect against damage caused by metahuman skirmishes, but Metropolis was a city anyone could fall in love with.

On the way to his apartment he stopped off at a wine merchant's to pick up a bottle of Lois' favourite Merlot and called up Mia Bella, her preferred Italian restaurant, to make a reservation for eight o'clock that night. Not having possession of his cell he had made the call from a phone booth. He liked phone booths. They reminded him of his early years as Superman.

By the time he had reached the outskirts of the trendy Waid Heights district where Lois and Clark shared their home the sun had nearly retreated behind the Lexcorp Tower, casting metropolis in a rosy dusk.

The back of his head occasionally tingled with an itchy, ticking sensation. He knew this to be a good thing. His cells were absorbing enough solar energy to heal the wound where a concrete lane divider had smashed into his skull less than an hour ago. By the time he returned to his apartment it would be healed completely. Every now and then he tipped his glasses forward, peering over the rim. Staring intently at the sidewalk below him, he could dimly make out the vague, shimmering forms of water and gas pipes. This was another good sign. X-ray vision was usually one of the last powers to return after he had depleted his energy reserves.

Clark's reverie was disturbed when a young man barged aggressively past him, clipping him with his shoulder and upsetting the bottle of wine the reporter held in his hand.

"Hey!"

He fumbled the bottle watching helplessly as it shattered on the ground, spilling its contents all over the sidewalk. Lois' romantic surprise, ruined. Clark glanced angrily at the young man who continued to stride past him. The disguised Kryptonian considered admonishing the youth but thought better of it. To give the kid a ticking off would be a very un-Clark thing to do, particularly in his own neighbourhood where appearances had to be kept up for the neighbours.

Instead Clark could only scowl after the youth.

He was a head shorter than Clark, wearing baggy blue jeans, a grey hoodie and red baseball cap. When the young man turned to return Clark's gaze there was something about him that raised a sense of strange unease in the veteran reporter. His eyes were a steely grey and he had several piercings in his eyebrow, nose and lip. His mouth was a tight lipped grimace. What disturbed him the most, though, was the sheer malice that those eyes seemed to convey.

A strange buzzing suddenly sounded, angrily, in Clark's ear and he twitched his head to dislodge whatever insect was trying to crawl in there.

With a smirk the youth disappeared around the block, leaving Clark to stare after him, dumbfounded. His gaze wandered to the shattered bottle of wine, its expensive contents now tricking into a storm drain.

"Kids these days, huh?" offered a voice from across the street.

Tom Callaghan, a pleasant faced octogenarian who had lived in the building opposite since before the depression was walking his ancient German Shepherd. Clark adjusted his glasses and smiled sheepishly before rounding the corner to his street.

He was, perhaps, twenty yards from his brownstone when he saw it.

In blood red spray paint, around six feet high, an encircled swastika sullied the wall of a brownstone half a block away from Clark's home. Beneath it in crude scrawl was written the word.

SKINZ

Clark blew out a deep breath.

"There goes the neighbourhood."

* * *

Karl Dreyton had done well. The Master would be pleased.

We weaved deftly through the maze of anonymous cinder block walls and fluorescent white lights, unwavering in his stride. His hands were shaking. His mouth, though dry, was nonetheless metaphorically watering at the thought of the power that awaited him.

The power that The Master would grant if he continued to excel in his duties.

He had been given a taste, and he had liked it. The minor bodily supplements provided by The Master had increased his strength and speed considerably. He had particularly savoured the dopey look on the Kryptonian traitor's face when he had barged into him. That stupid, shovel jawed, bespectacled face!

It was a disguise that was both ingenious and completely idiotic at the same time.

Hiding in plain sight as someone so insignificant, so pitiful.

The door at which he stopped was adorned with the crest. The pentagonal symbol with the serpentine S shape, scarred through the middle with a jagged line. The pure would take its meaning back from the traitor. The line that cleft the insignia in two was a symbol of their faith. It represented the destruction of the impostor and the beginning of the reign of the _true_ Supermen.

Karl waited at the door. It's eye winked open and appraised him. Satisfied, it flashed scarlet and the door swung open to allow him passage. It was fortified with technology not of this world.

He strode into the room, stepping over cables that trailed across the length of the floor, thick, black and shiny like giant serpents. The centre of the room was occupied by a large, chrome slab joined to a computer console. As Karl logged into the console he took a moment to observe the figure lying helpless on the slab. His eyes explored her supple, feminine curves. She was at once repulsive and alluring, the mottled green and purple blemishes on her skin a stark reminder of her impurity.

He waited for fully seven minutes until the phone in his pocket rang. Of course he knew what the order would be but he would not insult The Master by pre-empting his commands. Karl Dreyton knew his place and would never lift a finger unless commanded to do so by his master.

The Master's voice, bold and strong and beautiful, issued the command.

"Your will be done, Master." Replied Karl and he hung up.

He leaned over the unconscious body on the slab and lowered the visor over her the upper half of her face. His lips less than an inch away from hers, he whispered,

"Now dream, as you are bidden, Empireth!"

With the touch of a button the console whirred to life.

The prisoner's full lips parted and she uttered an unearthly scream that only Karl Dreyton would ever hear.


	6. Chapter 5

The place had been trashed.

Clark Kent could only stand agape in his doorway and stare at the jumbled mass of disarray that had been his, and his wife's, treasured possessions and personal effects.

Numbly he fished in his pocket for his cell.

_Oh yeah!__ Not in this pocket._

It was in the suit he had left at The Planet that morning before embarking on his duties as Metropolis' defender. Trying not to disturb the crime scene, Clark tiptoed over to the house phone. His fingers danced across the keypad so fast it took the machine a few seconds to catch up. As he waited for Lois to pick up her desk phone at the Planet, his eyes scanned the wreck of the apartment, his mind nimbly assessing the damage.

As the ringing tone blared monotonously into his ear his keen mind noticed something strange about the wreckage strewn all over the hard wood floor. Ludicrous though it seemed, the spilled furniture and household items seemed to have a mathematical pattern. Almost a deliberate form of chaos. As if someone had gone to _too much_ trouble to make it look like-

"Editorial. Lois Lane's desk."

Curiously, it had been Bill Wright from the features desk that had answered Lois' phone. Clark made a conscious effort to trip over his words, surprised as he was.

"Lo-I uhh, hey. Bill?"

"Speaking."

"Bill, it's Clark. Is Lois around?"

"Oh, Kent, hey. Uhh, no she hasn't been in the last three hours. On the trail of something… Well. You know Lois. Couldn't tell you where she got to though."

"Oh I… Okay, thanks."

"Hey, listen, I think Jimmy might be somewhere around. I can ask him if you-"

"No. No, it's fine Bill. Thanks, I'll uhh… I'll try to get her on her cell."

Clark began to feel the vaguest tinglings of apprehension in his gut. Of course, there was nothing unusual about Lois dropping everything in pursuit of a story, but she wasn't in the habit of leaving the office without letting him know where she was going first.

Was he a worry wart? Domineering even? He doubted it, but even if he were it'd be with some justification. In the years since he had first met her, Lois Lane had been shot at, gassed, submerged in water, thrown out of several planes, pushed off the top of the Planet building, been caught in a head on train collision, found herself in the epicentre of a bomb blast and mailed innumerable death threats.

Her hard nosed investigative style had won her as many enemies as journalism awards. And her public friendship with Superman, not to mention press exclusivity, had made her a frequent target for many a nut trying to make a name for themselves. Even embittered rival journalists had resorted to less than scrupulous methods to get Lois Lane out of the picture.

Replacing the receiver, Clark dialled Lois' cell phone number and trained his superhuman hearing on the sound of her handset's ring tone.

Tuning out the background conversation of thousands of Metropolitans, the roar of car motors, the whoosh of the bullet train, Clark concentrated on the sound of Lois' cell phone.

He caught it!

Tinny little speakers blaring out 'Layla'. Eric Clapton's testament to the power of femininity.

_That's my Lois!_

Clark waited. Seconds stretched taught by adrenaline.

No answer.

Following the sound of the tinny ringtone with his eyes, Clark stared intently at the wall behind him. Wallpaper, plaster and brick faded away, entire buildings receded, x-ray vision penetrating every obstacle between Clark and his wife's phone.

The phone was in Lois' purse.

The purse was definitely not being carried by Lois.

Superman was in the air before Clark Kent's glasses even hit the ground.

* * *

A half mile away from the Daily Planet building, a quartet of teenagers in hoodies spilled the phone out onto the paved alleyway, along with the rest of the contents of Lois Lane's purse.

"Phone's ringin' man." Observed one of the young men.

"You wanna shut that thing up?" snarled another.

With a shrug, the first thief pressed the answer button,

"Bite me!" he snorted into the receiver, before dropping the phone from the ground and smashing beneath his heel.

"The Hell, you doin' Combs?" roared the group's ringleader. He was slightly older and stockier than his peers and his fingers were adorned with heavy gold rings that doubled as knuckledusters.

"What, man?" protested Combs, "Thing ain't worth nothin'. Piece of crap didn't even have no Blu-tooth."

The larger gang member slapped Combs hard across the face.

"You smash up any more o' our loot you ain't gonna have no teeth o' any colour."

"Hey, check it out!" a third gang member brandished Lois' wallet, tearing out a wad of twenties. "Mister Jackson is in da house!"

"Hey, get an eyeful of this dude," Shrieked a fourth, greatly amused by the passport sized photo of Clark sequestered in Lois' wallet. He held it up and started tilting it from side to side like a puppet, his voice became an exaggerated monotone.

"My name is Ken Lewis and I want to talk to _you_ about saving with the Bank of America."

The rest of the gang howled. A pack howl of laughter and territorial dominance in equal measure.

They were quickly silenced.

The Man of Steel landed hard on the paving behind them, slamming into the ground fist first. A spider web of deep cracks exploded into football sized chunks of concrete that bounced a clear two feet into the air. Dusty shrapnel spat into the gang's faces.

Superman drew himself up to his full height, his fists at his hips, face set into a vengeful scowl. In the dark of the alley his eyes seemed to glow with searing menace, like red hot coals.

Combs, the gang leader's right hand and easily the quickest of the four, snapped open a switchblade. With commendable speed and fluidity his hand shot out, jabbing out to gouge at Superman's eye. The hero palmed the blade away, dismissively.

"Stupid, buddy." He grimaced. "Really stupid!"

He breathed in and exhaled sharply, sending Combs cartwheeling into the air. He landed awkwardly amidst a trio of garbage pails, overturning them and catching his head on the way down. He lay concussed in the garbage, the front of his hoodie coated in a glistening layer of frost.

The remaining three gang members had by now produced pistols from within the folds of their clothing. Only their leader looked like he had ever held one before.

"I wouldn't." warned The Man of Steel.

Heedless, the young man who had taken such delight in his parody of Clark Kent squeezed off two rounds. Both ricocheted off of Superman's forehead, one whizzing harmlessly into the brick wall. The second caught their leader in the thigh, severing an artery. With a growl, the big man dropped while his accomplices decided to cut their losses and charge out of the alley. Superman let them go. He memorised their faces and the signatures of their heartbeats. He would be back for them later.

"Goddamn yellow livered sons of bitches." Cursed the leader, clutching his bleeding leg as he dragged himself deeper into the alley on his elbows.

"You're going to bleed out." Superman informed him solemnly.

He reached his hand out to the retreating thief.

"Take my hand. I'll get you to a hospital."

The gang leader snarled but reluctantly reached his hand up to the hero. Superman grasped his arm in a trapeze grip. He squeezed. Just enough pressure to let the punk know he was serious.

"I'll get you to a hospital. But first you're going to tell me where you got that purse."


	7. Chapter 6

Three hours earlier, Lois Lane had been grappling with the intricate mechanics of The Daily Planet's water cooler.

She pressed the plunger.

This produced a muted gurgle.

But no water.

She bent down to inspect the mechanism, her investigative mind piqued. She had always been like this, ever since she was a kid she couldn't leave a broken machine broken. The Xerox repairman once, jokingly but with a hint of concern, told her that she was putting him out of business.

"Now _that's_ what they call a butt that won't quit."

Lois rolled her eyes in mock disgust.

"Hi, Earl."

"No seriously, you're looking hot! New suit?"

"Yes Earl, it is. Thanks for noticing."

Earl Baker had begun making outrageously flirtatious remarks towards Lois ever since she'd arrived at the paper as an intern. At first she'd been faintly flattered, hiding her slight attraction to the handsome forty-something designer beneath a veil of low key hostility.

Years later, as she and Clark had begun dating, even after they'd been married, Earl's risqué comments actually increased in their frequency and daring. Lois eventually became outraged, even annoyed at Clark's inability to defend her honour, secret identity be damned.

"I really don't think you're his type." Clark had smiled, wryly.

When she stared back at him quizzically, Clark assured Lois that had she been the last woman on Earth, she still wouldn't have been Earl's type.

_Lane, for a trained observer, you sure do miss the easy ones._

Now she and Earl were making corridor chit chat. Easy, natural discourse between old friends about The Metropolis Monarchs, good wine and Perry White's aggressive approach to tardiness on deadlines. Perry had been riding Earl pretty hard about improving the interface of the Planet's online content.

"Listen Earl, you tell Perry that if he keeps getting on your case I'll tell everyone he cried like a girl when he saw me in my wedding dress. And another thing-"

Lois was cut short when the lithe figure of Jimmy Olsen sprinted around the corner, skidding to a halt at the cooler where the pair conversed.

"Lois!" he gasped, breathlessly. The Planet was a big building and it looked like the young photographer had sprinted all around it trying to find her.

"Jimmy?"

"Jim? You okay, son?" asked Earl, his playful grin belying genuine concern.

"Yeah, fine Earl. Thanks." Jimmy took a moment to find his breath.

"Sorry Lois, been looking all over. You got a visitor. A crazy. Keeps blabbering something about Ker-plunk and Superman. Normally we'd march him straight out of the door but… you know how it is, since he mentioned Superman we thought you might want the last word."

"Ker-plunk?"

"Not Ker-plunk. Jenga! No.. wait, Helter Skelter!"

"Helter-Skelter?"

"Yeah."

"And Superman."

"Uh-huh!"

"How crazy are we talking here?"

"What, like, on a scale of one to ten?"

"Yeah."

"I'd say about a seven or an eight."

"So… severe mental illness but no access to experimental weapons?"

"Sounds about right."

Lois sighed, her hopes of an early cut dashed before her eyes.

"I'd better go check it out. Thanks for the heads up Jimmy."

Lois and Earl walked their separate ways, leaving Jimmy by the water cooler.

"It's Jim!", he mumbled to nobody in particular.

* * *

Lois had been in the game long enough to know the genuine crazies from the people that just wanted attention. This guy was genuine. Probably even dangerous.

She introduced herself and held out her hand.

He merely stared at it and giggled, as if it had a dirty limerick written on the palm.

As Lois sat opposite him she registered the Charles Manson twitch, the paranoid agitation.

The scars.

The shaven head.

The jailhouse swastika tattoo.

The way he rubbed his hands together and glanced furtively around.

Oh yeah, this guy was textbook.

She sat with her back straight, keeping her body language strong but non-confrontational. She was all too aware how easily people like this man were agitated. She also knew that when they became jumpy, someone almost _always_ got hurt.

He gave his name as Eddie Cheevers and before Lois could get a word in, he unleashed a brown toothed, cackling verbal torrent;

"Helter-Skelter man. Helter-Skelter. Gonna be just like before but nothin' like before man. Gonna be dogs eatin' babies on the streets man. Gonna be blood in the gutter. Then the great white nation gonna take it all back, man."

"Uh huh", Lois took it all in, nodding demurely.

"You don't understand man. We been pushed underground man, deep underground. But all that's gonna change man. It's all gonna change 'cause now we got Superman on our side and-"

"I'm sorry," she was genuinely dumbfounded, "_Superman_?!?"

Lois did _not_ like the man's caramel toothed smile.

"Yes!" the man called Cheevers hissed, "We got Superman on our side. The _real _Superman. Y'see he's been driven underground too, just like us. But now he's ready, and he's going to lead us, we gonna rise up!"

Flecks of spittle flew from his lips as Cheevers became more excited and animated. His hands flexed, clenching into tight fists.

"He's gonna lead us out of the gutter and we're gonna rise up. He's gonna crush 'em under his boot. The impure. The unclean. The filthy parasites that come into the great US of A like goddamn locusts. He's gonna crush their skulls with his bare hands. He's gonna build paradise for the whites on the bodies of those scum-"

"That's _ridiculous_!" Lois had bolted out of her chair before she had time to admonish herself for her lack of control.

It was not even the slur upon Clark, Superman, the man she loved, that raised her gorge so much as the perversion of what Superman represented.

Superman.

The man who had fought tirelessly for years, for practically his whole adult life to protect the innocent, the wronged and the oppressed of the whole world regardless of boundaries, borders, races, faiths and politics.

The world seemed to stand still.

Lois was aware that her hands were shaking.

The smile was now gone from the madman's face. In its place was only the featureless expression of a lunatic provoked.

With unnerving speed Eddie Cheevers had risen and lashed out at Lois, clutching at her jaw. Dirty, yellowed fingers dug into her chin with feral strength. He drew close to Lois and hissed in her ear;

"Yeah, I had a feeling you wouldn't believe. See, you're just like them!"

Cheevers' voice was tremulous, his vocal chords strained by a mind that was a cauldron bubbling with hate, rage and perverse excitement.

"But you'll see, lady. You'll _all_ see."

Gagging on the stench of cheap cigars and something sickly sweet that she didn't care to mention, Lois Lane caught a glimpse of something terrifying in Cheevers' eye. It was nothing more than a glint, indefinable but horribly present. She had seen it before in only a few poor, tortured souls. It made her sure, beyond any doubt that the man who now squeezed the smooth, powdered flesh of her face was a killer. A man who had not only taken life, but taken life and _enjoyed_ it. And with that knowledge came the unflinching realization that there was a good chance that he would kill her too. That her life would be ended abruptly and violently in her own office at the whims of a deranged racist psychopath.

She had faced certain death before, had almost become hardened against death and danger. She had smart mouthed terrorists. She had laughed openly at the machinations of deformed monsters and career criminals even as they exposited their grand plans over her bound and gagged form. Only a handful of times had she truly known terror and it was terror that wrenched at her gut as her nostrils were filled with the lunatic's cloying stench. For the first time in her life she was completely paralyzed by fear.

His lips drew close to hers, his bare head nuzzled into her hair. His smell, his aura seemed to envelop her and it was as though it choked the very life from out of her. Sight and sound were lost to her, smothered by an ominous black cloud of total panic.

_Dammit, Lois_, _snap out of it! You've got a few seconds before he tries something. Maybe less. Oh Clark, where are you? Why don't you fly in right now and…_

She felt something cold and hard nudge persistently against her rib cage, a knife slid unseen between the buttons of her blouse, gliding toward the underwire of her bra.

_No! Clark can't be there to save you all the time, however much he loves you. He belongs to the world. You can get yourself out of this._

"Oooh, don't worry precious," whispered the lilting voice of the psychopath, "I ain't gonna kill ya. 'Least not yet anyways. I just been sent to give you a little incentive!"

All about the ace reporter and her fearsome interviewee, Lois' co-workers had begun to notice her plight. Hushed voices began to reverberate around the Daily Planet's newsroom. Tentatively the paper's staff began to edge toward the pair, creating a perimeter of terrified journalists, all of them wanting to help their respected and adored colleague, none of them wanting to agitate the deranged intruder who held her captive.

"Who is that?"

"He's got her-"

"Keep back, you damn fool, he's got a knife-"

"Security? We've got a situation on news desk-"

"-Get down, he'll see you!"

"What in the _Hell_ is going on here?" bellowed a voice that cowered an entire staff regularly.

Perry White strode out of his office, his every step laden with steely determination. He advanced, unflinching, toward Lois and Cheevers. His intention to startle Lois' attacker long enough for her to maneuver her way out of danger.

Lois seized her chance.

Inwardly thanking Perry for his quick thinking she pushed back hard against Cheevers, her left foot stepping back as her right lashed upward into her assailant's groin.

As Cheevers staggered back in shock and pain, Lois tumbled backward over her chair, colliding with her desk, bringing her working space and its contents crashing to the ground with her.

While the 'Planet's staff rushed to the aid of the reporter, Cheevers bolted out of the office, shoulder barging sports columnist Dave Thomas to the ground on his way out. Kicking the plexi-glass double doors of the open plan editorial suite open with a muddied boot, Cheevers turned to address Lois. A nicotine stained finger was leveled at her, the knife held high above his head for all to see.

"Gonna have ter take a rain-check on our date, little lady. But you and me are gonna get face to face _real_ soon. Trust me."

By now Perry White and Earl Baker were sprinting toward the lunatic, flanked by two diligent security guards. With a sickening grin Cheevers hurled the knife, halfheartedly, at the advancing group, sprinting down the corridor as the weapon clattered harmlessly to the ground.

After being helped to her feet by a newly arrived Jimmy Olsen, Lois caught her breath, staring resolutely after her attacker.

"Great Caesar's ghost Lois," chided a red faced, panting Perry White. "Just what in the blazes was _that_ all about?"

Ignoring him, Lois stared fixedly at the door, walking slowly and deliberately toward it as if in a trance.

"Lois? Lois, can you hear me?"

Lois knelt down and stared at the muddy footprint that Cheevers had left on the door. The angle at which his foot had struck the door had caused the markings to be streaky and blurred but she could still determine a working print from them. She rose to her feet and held out her hand.

"Jimmy. Polaroid!"

Within moments the photographer had scurried to her side and placed a chunky Polaroid camera in her hand. Scowling with determination she photographed the smeared boot print. Her fear had now completely subsided and given way to steely resolution and righteous anger.

"Lois," cautioned Perry, "Whatever you're thinking of doing… Don't!"

Lois snatched the small square of laminated paper from the camera and dried it with a rapid flick of her wrist as she handed the camera back to Jimmy. In seconds the image had formed. The photograph providing Lois with a valuable investigative tool.

"Lois! For God's sake that man could have killed you!"

Without a moment's hesitation Lois strode toward the double doors, leaving silent, awed reporters in her wake.

"Lois!" boomed Perry, "You take one more step and you're fired!"

But by the time the sentence had left the mouth of the Daily Planet's editor, Lois Lane had already swung the door open and made her way down the corridor.


	8. Chapter 7

Flight.

It was a dream that had pervaded in humankind's consciousness since civilisation looked longingly into the sky. To ascend, to touch the clouds and leave the mundane and the quotidian behind.

It was a dream that had facilitated beautiful works of art and poetry. It had inspired some of mankind's proudest feats of science and engineering.

Clark had never forgotten how privileged he was to be able to touch the clouds with his own hands.

He was seventeen when he flew for the first time. Throughout his childhood as the gifts of his special heritage had started to develop his greatest pleasure came from sneaking outside before daybreak to practice jumping, every day leaping higher and higher, training himself to reach new heights with every bound. By the age of twelve he could jump up to the roof of his house with a good run up. By fifteen he could get up to the roof of the barn with a standing jump. Increasingly he had felt an odd tingling in the pit of his stomach accompanied by a sense of weightlessness at the apex of his leaps. On an overcast and unremarkable morning, a few weeks away from his eighteenth birthday (which he would later find was chosen arbitrarily by his parents) he had resolved to clear both the house and the barn in a single leap. With a brief sprint and a bend at the knees he pushed off his toes and soared into the air. Beneath his feet the house, the barn and the rest of the farm shrank and then receded as he sailed straight upwards into a bank of cloud. He would never forget the cold, light kiss of the airborne moisture on his skin. The thrill that came with the realisation that for whatever reason gravity had not caught up with him and pulled him reluctantly to the ground. It had been the most exhilarating, magical, awe inspiring experience of his young life and though he had flown countless times since familiarity had never dulled the exhilaration.

Clark had come to view flying as not only exhilarating but hugely therapeutic. If he was having a bad day, ruminating over the details of a difficult case or wracking his brain for a compelling hook for a news story the total solitude of flying had allowed him to order his thoughts, centre and gain perspective on the great theatre of life played out on the tiny stage hundreds of feet below him.

Right now, however, flying brought him no comfort. High above the streets of Metropolis Superman's gaze penetrated brick, stone, glass and steel for the face described to him by the thug he had caught with Lois' purse.

"_Dude was creepy lookin'… Skin head, scars, tattoo on his forehead, kinda hard to miss… Twitchy too… And he stank… Kinda like old cabbage and gasoline. Just tossed us the purse when we was chillin'. Said somethin' bout the spoils o' war, laughed a little and went. Thas' all I know man, I swear!"_

The young man's heart rate had told Superman that he was telling the truth and the profuse bleeding from his femoral artery had no doubt provided an excellent incentive to tell the truth. He had ensured that the youth was left safely at the hospital and left him with a stern warning to change his life.

In the hours since he had scoured the streets many times over searching for that conspicuous but elusive face, for the familiar rhythm of Lois' heartbeat as recognisable to him as her face or her scent.

To the masses below he was a frantic streak of red and blue, dashing erratically through the darkening sky. To the engineer of his torment he was like a wild animal caged by his suffering, snarling and lashing at the walls of his cage ignorant of the identity of his captor.

* * *

Surrounded by monitors the architect of Superman's suffering allowed himself a moment of self satisfaction as the blurred image of the frantic Kal El stuttered from one screen to another and back again.

_Yes… Dance, my puppet. Your most exquisite torture has just begun. You are a disgrace to the name Superman. See how you stomp around like a child whose favourite toy has been taken from them. Rest assured Kal El, this festering sore of a planet you call home will have its _true_ Superman. But not before my vengeance is complete!_

The door behind him hissed open, interrupting his reverie. He did not need to turn around to know which of his pawns strode into the room to address him. The precise beat of his stride, the perpetual tang of adrenaline in his sweat.

"We have her master!"

Dreyton was a deluded little insect with militaristic delusions but he had a zeal that was quite endearing not to mention useful. Of course, as soon as he had outlived his usefulness he would be put out of his misery along with the rest of the insects.

"The Lane woman is secured?"

"Yessir!"

"And our other guest?"

"Hooked up to the machine and ready to go, Master!"

"Excellent," his symphony of revenge was building to its crescendo, "Then come, Dreyton. Where I come from it is most uncivilised to keep a lady waiting!"

Consciousness came but the total darkness remained. Lois Lane stirred, found herself tied (no surprise) but not gagged (unusual). Her head felt spongy and tender and the memory of how she became captured returned sickeningly to her.

She had been expecting to have to do some detective work and strode through the revolving doors of The Daily Planet with the intention of showing the Polaroid of the lunatic Cheevers' boot print to a friend at MPD forensics department who owed her a favour. He would be able to give Lois a pretty good idea of where the shoe was bought which in turn might give her an indication of whereabouts in Metropolis he might be found. At the very least she would know where to start asking questions and she had informants all over the city that she knew well and trusted.

As it happened she had only to walk a couple of blocks before Cheevers' telltale stench assailed her nostrils. She looked this way and that, trying to single out the dishevelled nutcase among the teeming masses thronging the sidewalk.

"Can't keep away, can you sweetie?"

A stinking hand clamped over her mouth and she was dragged backwards into a nearby alley before she could react. Her wide, terrified eyes darted amongst the faces of passersby. Whether they were unable to see her plight or if they simply ignored her gaze she would never know.

As the darkness of the alley swallowed her she managed to wriggle an arm free and struck out with an elbow, causing Cheevers to dispel a sour smelling wheeze and the two tumbled to the ground in a messy heap. Gathering herself, Lois rose to her feet and prepared herself to sprint for the safety of the street when something blunt struck the back of her head and the world bloomed into darkness.

She sat in this darkness now quietly gathering her wits. The icy hand of fear clenched around her stomach but she forced herself to suppress it.

_Keep it together Lane. Not like you've never been kidnapped before!_

A few blinks and a wriggle of her nose told her that she was not wearing a blindfold. She fought back the nausea of concussion by taking slow, deep breaths. The air was damp and stale.

_So… You're underground. Easy. Now, what else can we find out?_

She was tied by the wrists to a chair but her feet were free. A token restraint. She stamped her foot and cocked her head to one side, trying to get a measure of the echo.

_Hmmm… Short, metallic, not a lot of resonance. So… Deep underground in a fairly confined space. A vault maybe? Too deep to be a cellar or basement and the fact that I'm not more heavily bound probably means I'm a way away from help. Eat your heart out, Batman!_

The urge to scream for help rose in her throat but she would not debase herself by doing so. Her captors clearly had no idea who they were dealing with.

Before she could allow herself a wry smile there was a dull clunk and the chamber filled with blinding light. Through squinting eyelids Lois could see a human silhouette.

He was huge. Bigger even than Clark and considerably bulkier. As her pupils slowly contracted Lois could see that her captor wore a dirty grey trench coat with hair that might once have been blonde but was now not far from the same dirty grey colour. He eyed her with bemused contempt.

Behind him was a machine that looked like it might have been designed by HR Geiger, an intricate maze of chrome pipes and nodes that looked more biological than mechanical. Attached to this perversion of science by several cruel barbs in her neck, wrists and temples was a yellowish smudge that quickly solidified into the cruciform shape of a young woman as Lois stared.

She was alien and beautiful, her skin yellowish and glittering. Her lustrous purple hair hung loose down to her navel. Her face looked strangely peaceful yet troubled, like a child in the throes of a nightmare.

Lois was sure that she'd seen this girl before.

Following her line of vision her jailor gave a cruel smile and cupped a gauntleted hand around the girls face. He squeezed hard, drawing blood from the buried tips of his fingers.

"She's quite insensible to us I assure you. The demands of her role in my plans require that she be kept in a highly extreme state of sedation."

His voice was deep and well enunciated, much like Clark's.

"You didn't gag me." Lois growled, "Big mistake."

The captor gave a humourless laugh and shook his head as he strode to the metal wall and tapped it with a dull clang.

"Lead lined, Ms Lane, and equipped with several highly sophisticated sound dampeners. You are more than welcome to scream if you so desire but you will be wasting your breath. The Man of Steel won't be swooping in to save you just yet I'm afraid!"

"Oh I have no intention of screaming you son of a bitch! I'm going to tear you a new ass. You probably think you're going to use me to get at Superman. You've probably learned that I have a professional connection with him, a friendship even. Good for you, you have an internet connection. And you want to try and get at me through him. Let me tell you something Mister, better men than you have tried. In the past ten years I have been dropped from the roofs of twenty seven buildings. I've been abducted thirty three times. I've been shot at more times than I can count. I know what it feels like to be in freefall on a malfunctioning 747, I've been buried underneath the rubble of a building after a bomb blast. I've dodged alien energy beams from every corner of the galaxy and after all of that with or without Superman, _I'm still here!_ So… If you're looking for a damsel in distress… You've come to the wrong party asshole! There is nothing you can do to intimidate me pal. Nothing! So, get it over with and start telling me why your master plan to kill Superman and bring Metropolis to its knees is better than every other also ran who failed miserably and got a life sentence in Stryker's. Go on, seriously, I've been looking for something to make me laugh since they cancelled Friends."

The captor's face remained impassive but something violet and malevolent burned in his eyes.

"Bravado. Very well done Ms Lane."

The man's eyes flashed and Lois felt the most unimaginable pain she had ever experienced. The force of the blast knocked her into the wall and shattered the chair she sat on. She slumped on the ground and gritted her teeth, refusing to let this metahuman psychopath see her pain.

"That…" The very act of drawing breath to speak was agony. Her knees here jelly. She could not get up and run even if the door were wide open. "That all you got?"

"No Ms Lane." The man produced a remote control the size of his pocket that looked similar in design to the machine behind him. "Not by a long shot!"

* * *

_We will find her Kal!_

Over two hundred thousand miles away from planet Earth the green skinned Martian named J'onn J'onzz kept his lonely vigil in the empty war room of the Justice League's famed base, The Watchtower. The message of reassurance to his friend was telepathic, neither thought nor spoken but somewhere in between. His mind felt his friend receive the message but he sent no reply. The Martian empathised with Superman's plight enough not to take it personally. The memory of his own desperate struggle to find his own beloved wife decades ago on Mars was forever seared into his mind. A struggle through pain and blood, rubble and fire.

_Fire!_

Beneath his Martian battle armour his green skin rippled at the very thought of that harbinger of pain and death.

He returned to the interface of the supercomputer, an amalgam of technologies from all over the galaxy. At the moment there were several forms of Koluan matter tracers attuned to Lois Lane's individual bio signature. All of them were coming up blank. There were very few technologies on Earth that could hide a person from the machine's gaze.

As the readouts reported negative searches in ominous tones, the Martian hung his head. He was a member of the Justice League, admired and trusted the world over, living symbols of power, benevolence and fortitude. At the moment he simply felt small and human and crushingly inept. What good was a Justice League that could not even look after one of its own?

_We will find her._

He sent out the telepathic message again and hoped to Mars that his friend did not detect the trace of doubt in his mind.

* * *

Lois closed her eyes, expecting the pressing of the button to precipitate some kind of explosion of pain and fire.

None came.

She opened her eyes and nothing could have prepared her for what she saw.

He stood over her smiling as he did every morning when she awoke. There was love and tenderness in that smile but also a nobility that had made her fall in love with him, literally at first sight. He had never looked more regal or handsome in his costume. Her husband, Clark Kent, Superman reached down and gently took her hand, helping her to her feet. She threw her arms around him. For that moment she did not care that her jailor still shared the room with them, did not think to wonder what the strange device around his head was or why it was connected to the remote he held in his hand.

"I knew you'd come for me!" she whispered in her husband's ear.

"I always do!" he grinned.

She buried himself in his chest and absently wondered why she could not smell the familiar, clean yet Earthy farm boy scent that was as much a part of him as his spit curl or the crest he wore on his chest.

"I see you are acquainted. However, I'm afraid this will be a bittersweet reunion."

Lois' captor thumbed a dial on his remote and the girl in the machine gave a soft moan of pain. Lois looked into Superman's eyes and suddenly saw no trace of the man she loved in them anymore. They burned scarlet with malice and hate. With a sneer Superman picked Lois up by the throat and tossed her against the wall with mocking disdain. She collapsed in an agonized heap, tears stinging her eyes.

The madman in the trench coat stood beside Superman, the remote held loosely in his hand.

"Impressive no? By now I'm sure you're wondering what this is. You're an intelligent woman Ms Lane but you'll forgive me if I use a visual aid to demonstrate."

He pressed a button and suddenly the image of her husband, who eyed her with a hate and fury that she knew him not to be capable of began to melt and dissolve, becoming an amorphous red and blue blur. The figure then shimmered and solidified becoming someone else entirely. She recognised the glowing green armour that was not woven from any cloth but in fact composed of light made substance. She knew the cocky smile, the wavy brown hair, the domino mask and the circular logo. The man who stood before her was Hal Jordan, The Green Lantern.

"You know this one, I assume? Then you will also know that there are thousands like him all over the universe. They answer to a race of tedious little know it alls who presume to call themselves the Guardians of the Universe. To inflict what they call justice on the universe they equip idiots like this one that can instantly transform the wearer's thoughts into physical reality."

As if to illustrate the point The Green Lantern held up his ring hand and from the ring sprung a glowing green image of Lois' stunned face.

"Now the Guardians and their Corps use every opportunity to call this the most powerful weapon in the universe. Typically arrogant of them and quite incorrect as well but it did give me some small inspiration."

The image of The Green Lantern winked into nothingness and the jailor turned his attention to the poor girl who slumped at the machine, panting and bleeding.

"Now this alien scum here is one of the last of a thankfully rare breed that while repugnant in every way do still have an interesting ability that can be extremely useful when harnessed. Not only are they telepathic, nor is their power limited to being able to access and manipulate the thoughts of others." He gave Lois a black toothed grin. He carried on almost conversationally, "You can see why my people were so quick to cull them now can't you? Anyway, the thing that makes these little pests unique is their ability to create Psy-Structs at will."

Lois opened her mouth but the grey haired, grey skinned, black toothed madman seemed to have pre-empted her question;

"Manifestations of physical thought, just like the Lantern and your friend there. Alive, sentient and completely indistinguishable from the real thing. Far more effective than the constructs of those ridiculous rings. They are not only more durable but they can live completely independently of their creator for a short time. Not to mention the notable advantage that they're not glowing green. Now," he grinned again, a mad fervour in his eyes. "Any questions?"

Lois chose her words carefully.

"And how could you _possibly_ use these things to kill Superman?"

The man's laugh made her shiver despite herself.

"Oh _they_ shall not be used to kill him. They shall be used to _break_ him. The pleasure of killing him will be all mine but not before I have ripped his life to shreds in front of him. Any more questions?"

His strong voice was now hushed and lilted in excitement. Lois lane knew for sure that she was dealing with an extremely powerful madman.

Lois took a deep breath.

"Who are you?"

The man gave her a smile far more deranged and terrifying than any she had seen on Cheevers.

"Why my dear,"

He ripped open the filthy trench coat.

"I am Superman!"

Beneath, emblazoned on tarnished, bronze coloured tarnished armour was the crest of the man she loved, but scored horribly through the middle and dribbling with blackish congealed blood. He advanced towards Lois with insane lust in his eyes.

And this time she _did_ scream.


	9. Chapter 8

"Now where in the heck did I put my keys?"

"They're not on the hook?"

"If they were on the hook I wouldn't need to know where they were now, would I? Now, let me think… I took 'em out with me to the grocery store when I went to get that paper-"  
"You really ought to have left them on the hook Jonathan. That's where the keys go."

"Thank you Martha that's very helpful," Jonathan Kent rummaged through kitchen cupboards and stacks of old newspapers while his wife applied lipstick.

"It's like my mother used to say, 'a place for everything and everything in its place."

"Your Mom used to say a lot of things," Kent sighed, "Most of them horsesh-"

"Hey, watch what you're doing with those papers, Mister!"

"What? They're two weeks old, what could you possibly want with them?"

"I like to do the crossword puzzles. It keeps my mind sharp. You'll notice how I never lose _my_ keys!"

"Did anyone ever tell you, Martha Clark Kent that nobody likes a smartass?"  
"Did anyone ever tell you that misplacing your keys is an early sign of dementia?"

"I'll give you dementia you little-"

Kent swept his wife up in his arms in mock fury and began mercilessly tickling her sides. Martha exploded in a fit of giggles.

"Our boy's not the only man of steel huh?" he laughed, scooping her up beneath her armpits and lifting her up high.

"Get off me you big lug!" she protested. With a smile Jonathan squeezed her and set her on the ground, planting a tiny kiss on her forehead.

Friday night was date night in the Kent household and Martha had been going on for days about the Smallville Film Society's silent film festival. The little town's brass band had even written some of their own music to accompany Fritz Lang's _Metropolis_. Jonathan was less enthusiastic. He wasn't really a huge lover of movies in the way that Martha was and when he did venture into a theatre or wipe the dust from his DVD player it was to watch something he could relate to. A movie about a robot?! The only robots he knew of in real life were the ones who always seemed to be trying to kill his son.

"Now come on, let's find these damn things or we'll miss the movie."  
"If you'd had a duplicate set made when I said then we wouldn't be in this-"

"FOUND 'EM!" a voice called from upstairs and in a flash a young man in his late teens, clad in blue jeans and a red sweater, bounded into the room jingling the missing car keys in his hand.

"Left pocket of your coveralls, Pa!"

"Ah, _thank you_ Conner!" he turned to his wife, "Cinderella, you shall go to the ball!"

Martha took the boy's face in his hands and pinched his cheeks.

"I don't know what we'd do without you, Conner!"

"It was nothing, really" he tapped the frame of his round glasses, "X-Ray vision, y'know?"

She ruffled his hair.

_My boy… It's like I get to watch him grow up all over again._

Conner had been a clone of Superman developed by the Cadmus labs and released _prematurely_ following the… the incident with the Doomsday creature.

While grown from a composite of Superman and Lex Luthor's DNA Martha had no doubt whatsoever that this Superboy had inherited her boy's kind heart as well as his looks.

And powers.

When he had first emerged from the birthing tank, the Superboy had been angry, confused and arrogant, convinced that he was the real Superman but unable to account for the discrepancy in age.

Upon his resurrection Clark took the boy under his wing, affectionately giving him the Kryptonian name Kon-El. When Clark had asked his parents to take the boy in, hoping that they could raise him with the same set of values that had made him choose to be Superman both the Kents and Kon-El jumped at the chance. He was renamed Conner Kent and treated like as much a member of the family as Clark. So much like him, but so different in all those subtle and wonderful ways.

For her own part, Martha relished being a full time Mom again. As proud as she was of Clark and all he had accomplished, the years since his departure for Metropolis had been lonely for she and Jonathan.

"Hello, Earth to Martha?"

Her husband now stood by the door, spinning the keychain round his finger. She kissed Conner goodbye.

"Now, your dinner's in the oven. Remember-"

"'Crisp it up under the broiler', she says to the kid with heat vision," the boy smiled, "You guys go out and have fun. We've got things covered here, right Krypto?"

The white dog nestled by the fire looked up with doe eyes, ears cocked; his tail pounded the ground three times. Then he returned his attention to the length of steel pipe he was gnawing on.

"You guys got any plans for tonight?"  
"Oh, I dunno. Pizza, a couple of DVDs, might dash out to save the world a couple of times, we'll play it by ear."

Jonathan waited impatiently at the door while Conner put an arm around Martha and gently ushered her into the hallway.

"Okay, now can we please just get-"

Jonathan Kent's words died on his lips as he swung the door.

Clark stood in the doorway, his face haggard and pale, cobalt blue eyes fringed with red. The Kents had never seen their boy look so weak, so vulnerable.

"Lois," he croaked "Lois… she's gone."

Silently the three converged on Clark and held him until the tears stopped.

Twenty minutes later Clark was dressed in a freshly laundered plaid shirt and brown cords, sipping herbal tea in the kitchen. Krypto emerged from under the table, hopped up and set a paw on his leg, a quintessential gesture of canine concern for his master. He stroked the dog behind the ears, a sad smile on his face as he stirred his tea.

Behind him Martha wrung her hands,

"You want me to heat you up some chicken soup?" she knew it was pathetic consolation even as she said it. Clark's tired smile broke her heart.

"Thanks Mom, that'd be nice."

Even as she fired up the stove she knew that Clark wouldn't be able to eat the soup, but he knew the act of preparing it for him would at least provide her with a distraction from her worry, make her feel useful.

Jonathan sat beside him.

"Now Clark, I want you to listen to me. Remember that time when you came and sat in that very chair, four years old screaming your eyes out because that boy in kindergarten stole your fire truck?" Clark smiled through his pain, it was one of his earliest memories, "Well I sat you on my lap and I said 'Son, there's not a problem out there that you can't lick when you've got me and your Ma watching your back. Now, just think, how many problems from little Ricky Myers stealing your fire truck to Metallo have we talked out right here in this room? This is just another problem Clark and we'll get it licked right here you have my word!"

Clark squeezed the older man's hand and could not have felt more proud to be a Kent.

"Thanks Pa!"

Conner paced up and down the kitchen. He now wore a plain black t shirt emblazoned with the Kryptonian insignia of Superboy.

"People don't just disappear, right? I mean, look at it like this, Lois has to be on the planet _somewhere_, we just need to make sure we're looking in the right place at the right time."

Clark nodded, he didn't want to entertain the possibility that Lois had been taken off world.

"What about the League?" Martha suggested as she stirred, "Surely they have some way of tracking her?"

"They're working on it, Ma." Clark half lied, removing his glasses and rubbing his tired eyes. One of the first things he's done was to interface telepathically with Jo'nn J'onzz at the Watchtower. Like every member of the Justice League and those closest to them, Lois had a tiny sub dermal tracking device implanted harmlessly in her left wrist. It used technology from several different worlds and could broadcast from any location on Earth. According to the Watchtower's monitor Lois' signal bounced erratically between continents every second seconds. Wither her tracker's signal was being interfered with or she was stuck in some kind of teleportation loop.

He didn't want to alarm his family any more than he had to. He let out a long sigh.

"I'm sorry I ruined your date night guys."

Jonathan clapped his adopted son on the back.

"Son, there isn't a soul in this room wouldn't walk to the gates of Hell and back for the others so don't you go thinking that missing a little Alfred Hitchcock is going to be any skin of our nose."

"Fritz Lang" Martha corrected setting the bowl down in front of Clark.

With polish and patience the servants that attended him had returned the lustre to Preus' battle armour and draped a cape of blood red satin around his shoulders. He drew himself up and admired his reflection in the mirror. He felt a swell of pride, not unlike the way he had felt as a soldier on parade. A lifetime ago, in Kandor. Before Kal El had robbed the sense from his life.

The greyish pallor of his skin and the black veins that had begun to emerge along his jaw line had been concealed with make up, his hair brushed and oiled.

"Will that be all, sir?"

They were both young and, for their species, attractive and he rather enjoyed the sexually charged awe with which they regarded him. To be adulated, desired. It felt right.

"Yes. Have all our soldiers assemble in the main Hall. I will be ready shortly."

"Very good sir." They bowed in unison and made for the door.

"Wait."

They froze and he sensed their fear. It was exquisite.

He stepped towards them slowly, they stared intently at the ground by their feet.

"The armour," he smiled. "You have done a good job."

They exchanged an excited glance.

"Thank you, Superman."

As they left, all giggles and fluttering hearts, Preus noted a strange affection for the creatures of this world. He would enjoy giving this world the Superman it deserved.

Though he was coping remarkably well with both the soup and the small talk Jonathan was acutely aware that across the table from him his son's heart was breaking. Not for the first time he wondered how a Kansas hick could give words of advice or comfort to a man who could bench press a skyscraper.

He opened his mouth to say something, came up short and put a hand on Clark's shoulder instead. The two men shared a glance.

"I… I just wish I knew what to do in situations like this." The older man admitted.

Clark leaned forward and smiled.

"Keep being Jonathan Kent. That's just about the best thing I could ask of you." And he clapped his father heartily on the back.

Jonathan smiled and went to the refrigerator to fetch himself a beer. He had barely popped the cap when Clark stood bolt upright so quickly that his chair flipped over and smacked the wooden floor. Martha hurried to his side.

"What is it son?"

Clark held up a silencing hand and cocked his head.

"I hear her. Lois' heartbeat. She's alive." A pause as he tried to zero in on the sound's location. "She's in the apartment!"

Conner breathed a sigh of relief.

"Thank God, man. For a second I was really-"

He had expected to see elation on Clark's face. What he saw was closer to suspicion.

"What's wrong?"

"I'm not sure." Clark made for the front door and the others followed. He stepped into the porch breathing in the clean Smallville night air. His every muscle seemed tense, attuned, a coiled spring of near infinite potential energy. He focused his hearing. He was so used to the unique rhythm of Lois' heartbeat, a rhythm as individual as a fingerprint, that he could even detect it all these hundreds of miles away. But the tenor of it sounded… Wrong somehow.

"But if you can hear her that's good right? It means she's okay?" Martha insisted.

Clark took a few steps forward, face turned up to the stars.

"I guess so."

There was a long silence. The night wind gently stirred a few ears of corn to mark the moment.

Clark shook his head and shook the tension from his shoulders.

"I'm sorry guys. All these years trading wits with the likes of Lex Luthor have made me paranoid. I'm sure everything's fine. Just fine."

He took a few steps forward and braced. The Kents expected him to launch himself into the air but Clark remained a few seconds, seeming hesitant.

"Clark?" Martha gingerly approached her son, "Everything's… Everything's alright isn't it?"

A moment's silence.

Clark then turned to face his family and flashed them a smile that made him look for all the world like Superman in a plaid shirt and glasses.

The hangar was cavernous and wreathed in shadows, penetrated here and there with the sickly white glow of fluorescent lights.

The Superman cast an approving eye across his crowd of disciples. An inauspicious venue this may be, but to his throng, who have seen no better, it must seem as grand as the greatest halls of Kandor.

"My loyal followers."

His booming voice fills the room and any titter of conversation is instantly silenced. Presus has enough sense of theatre to hold the ensuing pause as long as possible, trying to appear to meet as many of them in the eye as he can.

He stands with a single hand raised, his crimson cloak wrapped around him.

"For some time now, I have lived amongst you. I have felt your pain. I have felt the insidious tendrils of the forces that have tried to corrupt your great culture."

A ripple of nods moves across the crowd. He has planned his speech well, playing on their petty fears and insecurities. In preparation he had watched some clips of a quaint tyrant from this planet's recent history and structured his words accordingly.

"I have seen the corrupt and apathetic use their positions of authority to grind you into the mud. I have seen pride and dignity met with disdain and hatred. I have seen how your society tries to poison your minds with its labels and lies."

Explosions of sound flare across the crown as they shout their agreement. It is time for his coup de gras.

"They call you racists and bigots. They who hold the keys to the place that you love and wish only to shape you in your own image.

This condescending society that has reached out and snatched away your world from you tries to crush you under its boot as it looks up in the sky to an _**impostor**_."  
Pockets of the crowd erupt as Preus builds to his climax;

"Their Super Man is nothing of the sort. He soars above your heads with not a care for your pain. Behold-"

He sweeps aside his cloak revealing his gleaming armour just as banners cascade down the walls bearing his crest of the scarred and bifurcated S. His audience let out a collective gasp.

"Your leader, the _true_ Superman will reach up into the sky and pluck down this impostor!"

Preus spread out his arms and basked in the thunderous applause of his army.

Clark swung the door open to find the apartment in darkness. The floor to ceiling window was left wide open, an icy chill stirring the open curtains. In the centre of the apartment's living room, on a breakfast bar stool sat Lois. Silent. Still. Her head bowed and her shoulders hunched.

"Lois?"

Slowly she raised her shoulders back. Her head lolled drunkenly to one side.

She smiled.

Never would Clark have imagined that a smile from his wife would cause a shiver to run down his neck and along his spine but there was no denying the icy malevolence on his wife's face.

"Hiiiii honey." It was Lois' voice alright but the tone of lilting mockery sounded blasphemous in her throat.

Reflexively Clark looked through her skin. He knew every cell of his wife's body and while he could see that what he was looking at was a perfect representation of Lois Lane, the cellular structure was different… Somehow… simplified.

"Who are you?" Clark kept his voice firm but even. "What have you done with Lois?"

The impostor laughed, a horrible throaty cackle.

"Awwww, hubby. Why do you have to be such a spoil sport? Don't you want to play our little game?"

Clark advanced, fists clenched.

"I've had more than enough of games for one night."

A sulky pout and she rose to her feet.

"Very well, Kal El. Then let us pursue more serious matters."

Silently 'Lois' padded to the balcony. Hesitantly Clark followed.

"What do you want?"

"That will become apparent soon Kal El. It would be churlish to peek behind the curtain at this juncture, don't you think?"

"You're trying my patience."  
"Oh boo-hoo. What do you intend to do, Kal El? Punch me? Be my guest. See what happens."

"You keep calling me Kal El. Not many people know that name."

The thing giggled horribly.

"Playing the detective now, my darling? Leave that to the other one, would you? I imagine you would be even more tiresome with pretentions of intellect."

Clark folded his arms and peered through light made into skin and bone and flesh.

"You're a psi-struct aren't you?"

It winked at him.

"Lois' kidnapping, the explosion on the bridge. I'm guessing they were you?"

The doppelganger of Lois slid her shapely legs over the ledge of the balcony. She kicked her legs girlishly in the night air humming the tune from Eric Clapton's Layla. Lois' ringtone.

"What are you doing?"

There was no smiling or playfulness now and the look the psi-struct gave him burned with pure hatred.

"Tightening the noose around your neck."

Clark's response stuck in his throat when the psi-struct let out a piercing scream.

Up and down the street lights flicked on. Windows opened. Curious faces emerged. Hands held out in a placating gesture Clark advanced.

"Whoever you are, whatever your plan is, it doesn't have to come to this." The thing sniggered, "But if you're Hell bent on fighting me, let me tell you now... You will not-"

The breath was torn from Clark's throat as a series of explosions ripped through Metropolis and suddenly his ears were filled with the screams of the dying, the injured and the horrified. From several blocks away the smell of smoke and charred flesh.

And as Clark's senses reeled, the psi-struct that was in every sense a perfect replica of Lois Lane blew her husband a kiss and plummeted screaming into the darkness as their neighbours looked on in horror.


End file.
